


These Games of Comfort

by kuiske



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dwarves In Exile, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, dworin - Freeform, everyone is traumatised, vague reference to implied suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 21:21:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17050778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuiske/pseuds/kuiske
Summary: It was just another day on the road.Just another day trying to hold each other up, however they could.





	These Games of Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raiyana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/gifts).



> Written for the Have a Happy Hobbit Holiday 2018 -exchange.

Thorin decided to count it as a win when he didn’t singe his hair or spill his bowl of porridge as he all but collapsed by the campfire, hours after the sun had set.

It was pathetic, but he so desperately needed a win that he was willing to stoop to being pitiful for a while, if it meant scraping up a victory of some kind, _any_ kind.

It did not work.

“Steel and gold keep our kingdoms safe,” his Grandfather had said, years ago when Thorin was still a child and his Grandfather was still his Grandfather. “Every Dwarrow needs an axe of steel and a shield of gold.”

“That’s stupid,” Thorin had answered, young enough to know everything. “You can’t make shields out of gold, it’s too soft. And I like swords better.”

Thrór had laughed and promised to explain it when Thorin was old enough to understand. He never had, but Thorin had learned all the same, and he understood it far better now than he’d have ever cared to.

How many insults had their gold protected them from, back in Erebor?

How many snide comments, how many muttered curses or threats, how much delighted cruelty had been deflected so completely that he hadn’t even been able to _imagine_ how deep it all could cut?

He liked to think that the Men of Dale had been different, but perhaps…

Perhaps it had only ever been because of the gold.

Their swords were still fine, but Thrór had been right; steel alone didn’t suffice. Thorin had felt the loss of their shield every day for years now.

He’d felt it anew today as well, watching some Man smile as he made his final offer for Thorin’s work. The offer had been a fraction of what the piece was worth, because the Man had known that the ragged Dwarf wasn’t in a position where he could refuse to sell, no matter how low the price. He doubted that the Man had been aware of how hard Thorin’d had to fight to keep himself from answering the insult with his fists, but they needed the money and you couldn’t eat pride.

It was a mantra by now.

_You can’t eat pride._

_Your sister can’t eat your pride._

~~_Your brother can’t eat your pride._ ~~

_Your people can’t eat your pride._

_You can’t eat pride._

Thorin put down his untouched supper. He was hungry, but despite that, he found that he didn’t have much of an appetite.

He was beginning to think that the small everyday insults were worse than any tragedy. He was probably seven kinds of a traitor to his people for feeling like that, but he thought it all the same.

At least tragedies made an impact, if a horrifying one.

Laments in low voices that had been meant to echo in halls of stone rose to an empty sky instead. The songs rose, and the words sank deep down into their bones, taking hold, making certain that Durin’s folk could never forget the terror in Khazad-Dûm or the Dragon-fire in Erebor. The homes they had lost were part of them, and they would be a part of their children and their children’s children, forever until the world was made new.

The exile wasn’t a great Enemy for them to vanquish or fall in the attempt; there was nothing to fight and yet somehow every day was a battle. It was as if they were sitting at the bottom of a mineshaft trying to claw their way up without a handhold, and tomorrow promised nothing except more of the same. Their spirit which had remained unbroken through fire and death was slowly being ground to nothing by endless days of new degradations, or old ones repeated. And the road just went on and on and _on_.

Mahal, at least the great tragedies had an _end!_

“You should eat.”

Thorin glanced up, startled out of his thoughts, and gave his little sister a would-be stern look.

“ _You_ should be asleep.”

“Aunt Hrís doesn’t brush my hair right,” Dís claimed seriously. “I can’t sleep, if it isn’t brushed proper.”

Thorin studiously avoided looking at Dís’ loosely braided mane of dark hair that appeared to have been brushed to absolute perfection.

“That’s rough,” he said, quite as seriously. “Maybe you should run back to aunt Hrís and ask her to brush it again, give her a bit of practise?”

“Don’t be _stupid!_ ” Dís whacked him on the shoulder with her hairbrush. “I shouldn’t bother her. I _can_ bother you, ‘cause you aren’t doing anything anyway. So you might as well brush my hair and then you can eat and then we can both go to sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dís plopped down on the ground with her back towards him. Thorin took his chance and grabbed her to a headlock, ruffling her hair mercilessly.

“You aren’t a bother,” he whispered to her. “You’re a menacing little goblin-spawn, but not a bother.”

“ _A goblin?!_ ” Dís shrieked, then giggled and squirmed. “I’ll show you _goblin_ , you overgrown troll toe-fungus!”

“Now there’s a troubling mental image,” Thorin heard Dwalin speak behind his back. “Do you need to be rescued from the vile, giant fungus, princess?”

“I can take him!”

“Sure you can,” Thorin muttered and let go of her. “Settle down, then. I guess your hair really does need brushing now.”

“Always needed,” Dís insisted, but did as she was told.

Thorin expected Dwalin either to take a seat next to them or then take his leave, but he did neither. He stood behind them as if on watch, although it wasn’t his shift yet, and even if it had been, they hardly needed guards at the heart of the camp. Thorin was glad Dwalin had nowhere else to be, though. He felt safer for his presence as he started to work open Dís’ mussed up braid. Her hair was completely tangle-free, even now, but then, the quality of grooming had never been the point of anything. Almost all of their people played these little games, like well-rehearsed plays or rituals, whenever they needed comfort but didn’t feel like talking about what bothered them.

Dís pretended to need to get her hair re-done, because she didn’t like going to sleep alone. She never had, and it had only gotten worse since Azanulbizar. Thorin could hardly blame her, since he couldn’t sleep without knowing where she was either, when he could sleep at all. There was too much to think about at night, and hardly anything to distract from the memories.

He was glad that he’d been able to make her laugh today. She had been so quiet and sombre of late, and Thorin had never had the gift of making people laugh and forget their troubles for a while.

That had always been Frerin.

He liked to think that he was helping her a little, though, with the old hairbrush and a careful touch.

When Dís was beginning to have trouble staying upright, half-asleep already, Thorin set the brush aside and pulled her properly into his arms. She grumbled a little, but didn’t try to sit up or even claim that she wasn’t tired, honestly. Thorin exhaled shakily and leaned back until most of his weight was resting against Dwalin’s legs.

Dwalin didn’t seem to mind.

“You can have my supper if you want it,” Thorin said quietly. “It’s cold now, though.”

“Thanks, but you should eat it.”

“So I’ve been told. I’m not feeling very hungry.”

“I don’t really care,” Dwalin said bluntly. “You should eat anyway.”

“Am I hearing an _or else?_ ”

“I would _truly_ hate to take that porridge and pour it down your throat,” Dwalin lamented. “But a Dwarf must do what a Dwarf must do.”

Thorin smiled despite himself. This was a practised conversation as well. 

Neither of them would mention the Dwarves who’d started to refuse food, or what’d usually happened to them fairly soon after. They didn’t talk about how anxious his family got when Thorin didn’t feel like eating, either. No, Dwalin would feign nonchalance and make increasingly outrageous threats, and Thorin would eventually choke down his bowl of boiled flour even though it tasted like ash, if only to make everyone stop worrying. 

Dís started to snore before Thorin could think of a reply.

“I should take her to bed,” he said and tightened his arms around her, but made no move to stand up.

Dwalin’s hand brushed the top of Thorin’s head before sliding lower and settling on his cheek. Thorin wanted to return the touch, but his hands were full of his sleeping sister and he didn’t want to let go. He turned his head a little and rubbed his temple against Dwalin’s thigh, affection tinted with apology. 

He really did hate making him worry. 

A strong hand pressed him gently against a stronger thigh, and Thorin closed his eyes, content. It wasn’t really a hug, but it felt like one, and he hoped with all his heart that it felt like a hug to Dwalin as well. 

**Author's Note:**

> Dís is the equivalent of ~13 years old in this and Thorin and Dwalin are 19-20.
> 
> The fic is set after Azanulbizar but before settlement to the Blue Mountains.


End file.
